


the same deep water

by michelllejones



Series: endless song [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Homophobic Language, M/M, canon compliant but like not in the way you think, courtesy of henry bowers, its angst with a bread plate size of fluff on the side, just being in love with your best friend things, the clubhouse is present, the losers are not, this is....something.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-24 08:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20703305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelllejones/pseuds/michelllejones
Summary: “Stop staring at me, creep.” Eddie grumbles, all of a sudden, bringing Richie back to present day, where he is laying beside Eddie and they are sharing each other’s space and listening to the lovelorn songs of The Cure, and Richie, though he hadn’t realized it until he got caught, is staring over at his best friend, thinking secret things that he wishes didn't have to be.Stomach plummeting, Richie freezes. “M’not,” he lies after he thaws out, sounding dumb. He flexes his hands, pockets them. Doesn’t move his eyes from Eddie’s face.Sighing, Eddie peeks one eye open. “Are too,” he argues, “you still are. Rude to stare, y’know,” he says, opening both eyes now as tilts his head up to meet Richie’s gaze, their faces a single breath apart.





	the same deep water

**Author's Note:**

> hi im back. this isnt what i should be writing, but i wrote it anyway because i lack self control.  
enjoy!!!!!  
<3

_Running during summer fucking vacation should be a crime,_ Richie thinks bitterly as his feet pound into the damp soil of the forest floor, crack displaced branches and uproot weeds, as he runs and runs and runs. The Kenduskeag to his right, running alongside him, taunting him as it does, calling to him, _jump in Richie,_ it coos, _I’ll take you where you want to go…_

God, he wants to listen. Ache in his bones, heartbeat in his lungs, chest expanding, contracting, his organs hybridized; exhaustion starts to settle in, dilute his senses. There is a stitch in his side and he doesn’t know how much more brute force his knees can take; but he can’t stop. He won’t.

_System overload,_ his brains screams, _mainframe malfunction, stop, take a break, jump in, give up,_ and he wants to listen. He wants nothing more than to give in, to say yes, _you’re right,_ to stop, take a break, jump in the river and give up, let it take him wherever and maybe even let it drown him. Any out come is better than the one that awaits him, he knows, but he can’t listen. So he ignores it, all of it, every thought and every ache and every_thing_. 

So he doesn’t stop, but really, stopping was never an option; the second he did would be his last. 

So he keeps running, he runs faster than he thinks he has ever run before, and he doesn’t dare look back; afraid of what he’ll see if he does, though he can guess well enough the image that awaits him: Henry Bowers, a snarl on his lips and eyes drenched in bottomless darkness and Richie’s blood on his fists, his life in his hands. 

Then, bang on fucking time, a howl in the background, a screeching “you can run but you can’t ever hide, fucking faggot!” splits through the air. Pushes Richie to sprint, sends him racing through trees and brush, and maybe he trips, he doesn’t know if it even happens because he is up in a blink and then he is forcing his legs and urging his heart and begging his lungs to work faster, to keep going, just a little longer, just a little further, _please please please_. 

Rustling behind him, thudding footsteps, getting closer—too fucking close—gaining on him. Inside, something like a prayer plays on loop as he chants _Jesus Christ Jesus Christ Jesus Christ_ as he picks up the fucking pace because there is no way he is dying at fifteen, no fucking way he is dying here, like this. 

Thankfully, he knows where he is now; he is almost there, almost in the clear, _don’t quit on me, now_ he tells his body, that only throbs in response, a very obvious fuck you, shut up that he knows he deserves, but it will thank him later when he gets it there, when he makes it there alive and kicking. A few more yards, a few more feet—_“Little Fag, Little Fag, come out and playyy!”_—and then, finally, he’s there. 

Dropping to his knees with a thud, he slides forward and digs through the intricately placed leaves and realizes only then that his vision is blurred; can’t see for fucking shit. Blindly, he scrapes around for the handle until, blood rushing to his hears because _holy fucking fuck_ he can hear Henry’s footsteps and his manic laughter, _where the fuck is the fucking handle?_

Cold metal against his finger tips, at last, he grabs ahold of it, yanks it open so fast his fingers slip painfully away from the latch, but he doesn’t give a shit about that; he has to get inside and now.

There is no time to climb down the ladder, he has to jump. Slamming the door behind him, he drops down, and lands with a splintering pain in both of his ankles, falls flat on his back. For a moment, he lays there, gasping and hiccuping for air, trying and failing to fill his lungs with oxygen. Head tingling, heart clamoring, veins pulsing, he sucks in one shuddering breath. Holds. Releases. Rinses and repeats; and after the third breath, he releases a sob. Tears spill onto his cheeks and he forces himself up from the ground, hugs his knees to his chest and cries. When he wipes at his eyes, he finds his glasses are missing—he faintly remembers how they’d flown off his face when he fell backward. 

Slowly, he turns around, pats around on the dirt floor for his glasses. When he puts them on, he blinks, wipes the tears from his eyes, and when he looks back up, he freezes—everything does. 

Because, right there, sitting on the floor behind him, is Eddie, fucking Eddie Goddamn Kaspbrak with his stupid He-Man T-shirt and his stupid heart wrenching look on his stupid little face; he is there, in the clubhouse, fucking staring him like people stare at car crashes, and the worst part is that seeing Eddie doesn’t scare him, at least, not in the way that it should. 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

“H...hey Eds,” his cracked lips quiver around a smile, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say? “What,” he swallows thickly, choking down the sobs that threaten to crawl right out, “What are you doing—what are you doing here?” The question comes out all wrong, crackly and small and so fucking pathetic. Richie almost wishes that he had let Henry catch up to him, after all, because he cannot fucking handle the way Eddie’s face falls as he takes Richie in, completely, sees the whole of it. 

Silent, Eddie just stares at him. “Reading,” he blurts, gestures to the book in his hand. Then, he stands from his spot on the floor, and very cautiously steps over to Richie, who is still cradling his knees on the floor. But he crouches low, and his face is in front of Richie’s then—close enough that he can see how fear has blown his pupils wide. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, sounding unsure of himself. Richie wants to laugh. He is anything but okay. But he—he doesn’t want to Eddie to worry. Doesn’t want to scare him.

So, he does what he does best. He deflects. “Peachy keen Eddie bean,” he sings and flashes a grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, tears still in them, chest constricting around a wildly thumping heart. The stretch of his lips stings, makes him hiss out loud, taste of iron coats his tongue. 

Just as Eddie opens his mouth, they hear rustling leaves above them, then, and Richie holds his breath. Eddie does too. At the sound of Henry’s screams, another lovely string of colorful and rather creative slurs and swears, Richie digs his nails into his palms until they hear him stomp away, leaving in the other direction.

When the coast is clear, Richie looks to Eddie, who is already looking at him. He opts for another smile, but it’s a futile attempt, because he knows that Eddie already knows everything. And by now, he has has noticed the cut on his lip, the swelling of his left eye. Noticed the blood on his shirt and the crack in his glasses; the dirt caked to his knees and the tear in his jeans. And Richie knows the jig is up—he’s been caught, and so he doesn’t try to give an excuse. He doesn’t try anything at all; lets his gaze fall to the floor, refuses to meet Eddie’s heavy stare.

“What happened this time?” he asks after a pause, carefully lifts his fingers, just barely ghosting Richie’s bruised cheekbone, before he retracts his hand, thinking better of it.

Then, Richie pauses. Isn’t sure if he wants to tell Eddie. The last thing he needs is Eddie feeling like he has to look over his shoulder, too, considering what…what he did. He doesn’t need him knowing. The burden is for him to carry, and him alone. He won’t bring Eddie down with him. He won’t. 

Frantically, his eyes flit between Eddie, the floor and the hammock and back. Cheeks burning, breaths quickening, he decides he has to change the subject. This can’t be something they talk about. Not today, anyway. 

Hopping to his feet—ignoring the way his body screams out in protest—he skips over to the blanket Eddie had been sitting on just moments ago and picks up the book he had discarded. “What’re ya reading?” He proses curiously, plops down onto the blanket with a sigh. “_Catcher in the Rye?_ The hell does that mean? Roger Clemens on a sandwich?” He snickers; pretends to be unaware of how fucking flat his voice falls, how hoarse he sounds. 

Where he left him, Eddie looks at Richie for one long, strained moment. He sighs. Brushes his hands off on his shorts and walks over to the blanket, sits himself down right beside Richie; they are side by side now. If he notices the way Richie stiffens, he says nothing. Instead, he rips the book out of Richie’s hands and sticks his nose into it and acts as though he is actually interested in reading it. 

Next to him, Richie is anxious. Jittery. Flustered. He can’t keep his eyes off Eddie—not when they’re this close, not when he can feel the warmth of Eddie against him, not when Eddie’s hair is brushing against his shoulder. So he stares, thinking that maybe the longer he does, the sooner he’ll come back down to Earth, feel alright again. 

He stares and stares and stares, something he has always done but certainly does a lot more now; at the collar of Eddie's shirt against his collarbones, the incline of his jugular, the junction between his neck and his jaw, his chin, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose, the freckles on his cheeks, his eyelashes, the dampened hair flattened against his forehead (because it’s summer again and it’s hot, hotter than it’s been in a long while) and then he is right back to his hair, longer than it ever was before; curlier with a mind of its own, and Richie has to clench his hands into fists to keep his fingers from reaching out and touching. 

Then, Henry’s voice dances between his ears—_“Are you trying to bone my little cousin?” “Get the fuck out of here, faggot!” “Little fag, little fag…”_—and Richie scoots a healthy distance away from Eddie. Far enough that he can no longer feel the brush of his hair or his warmth or him. 

A while passes and Eddie says nothing, so Richie says nothing. Instead, he looks straight ahead, at the INXS poster Bill hung up just last week, until Eddie reaches behind him and grabs a random comic from the bench. Wordlessly, he hands it to Richie. X-Men. Blinking at it, Richie takes it, even though he doesn’t exactly feel like reading anything, but he can at least pretend to. For Eddie’s sake. Maybe for his, too.

Eddie hasn’t stopped tapping his foot since sat down. Richie’s body still burns wherever he had felt him—the whole right side of him is in flames, pit of his stomach burned right through. 

“Can you sit still?” Richie snaps finally, desperate for a conversation to distract him, even if it is bickering. Anything to shift the tracks of his brain. 

With a sigh, Eddie puts his book down. “Can you tell me why Bowers was after you?”

Instantly, Richie’s eyes widen. Then, catching himself, he rolls them to maintain his facade of nonchalance. “He’s always after me. You know that,” he shrugs. Tugs at a loose thread on his shirt.

Eddie shakes his head. “Today was different. I can tell,” and Richie can feel his gaze on him; eyeing his cuts and the blood and the tear. “I haven’t seen you shake like that since...” he swallows audibly, “I thought maybe you... saw something.” 

“Nope,” is Richie’s breezy reply, “my mug is to Bowers as red is to a bull,” he sighs resolutely, “he’s been trying to rearrange it since the first grade. Guess I should thank him for the effort, huh? ‘Cept it’s gonna take a lot more than a few punches to fix this ugly puss,” he flashes a toothy grin, facing Eddie again, who meets him with an all too sullen frown.

“Rich,” Eddie chides.

“Eds,” Richie mocks. Eddie’s frown only deepens. Apparently, he isn’t going to budge on this. Jesus, why does he always have to be so fucking stubborn? Richie tosses his comic to the side and sighs. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Can we just, I dunno, drop it?”

“Not until—“

Richie doesn’t let him finish before he interrupts him hastily. “What are you doing down here anyway? Mrs. K try to trap you in your plastic bubble again?” He bites out, harsher than he means to. Visible hurt flashes in Eddie’s eyes.

Quickly, it is replaced with fury. Richie’s heart squeezes as Eddie’s face crumples up, something more than anger radiating off him.

“You’re a real dick sometimes, you know that?” he snaps, but it lacks heat, sounds almost…sad. Disappointed.

In something that feels like a state of shock, Richie blinks, not sure what to say. But his mouth always did work faster than his brain, and he is unable to stop himself before he chirps out a frivolous response.

“S’in my name! Comes on the package label, not my fault you didn’t read the warnings.”

At that, Eddie jerks his head to the side to glare at Richie, burning him in the process. “You know what? I’m going home. Let me know when you’re done being an asshole,” he grumbles, and then he is standing, grabbing his things, leaving, and that's all it takes for Richie to remember how desperately he doesn’t want to be alone. How badly he wants Eddie to stay—how badly he wants to be with Eddie. How badly he needs him.

Richie sputters as he reaches out to grab onto Eddie's wrist.“Wait—don’t—what if,” he stutters hoplessly, tugging him back, “w-what if Henry is still out there? I don’t—it—it isn’t safe, yet. I-I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t go,” and _fan-fucking-tastic_, he is crying again. Tears build up in his eyes until he can’t see, even with his glasses on, and before he can stop them, they’re streaming onto his cheeks, hot streaks sliding down his face and his neck. Like a little fucking baby, he sits there and he weeps, clutching Eddie’s wrist because he can’t let Eddie go out there, he can’t let Eddie go. 

A horrifyingly quiet moment passes between them, as Richie pulls on Eddie's hand like a baby does their mom in a grocery store—because that's what he is, isn't he? A giant, overgrown fucking baby—and Eddie's mouth bobs open and closed like he's a fish out of water, trying to breathe and failing.

But, not letting another second pass, Eddie is there in one swift drop to his knees, crowding Richie’s space, holding onto his arms and then his shoulders. Eventually, puts his hands on Richie’s face, tells him “I’m not going anywhere, Rich.” Says it over and over and over; to his face first, repeats it into his hair and his neck, and then they’re sitting on the dirt floor of the clubhouse, holding each other while Richie sobs until he can’t, cries until he runs out of tears, until all he can do is cling to Eddie with a vice grip; Eddie’s touch anchoring him here, keeping him in place, holding him down. 

After a while, they break apart.

Before, Eddie had been afraid to touch him, but now, he runs a gentle hand through Richie’s hair, smooths it back. He wipes any remaining tears away with the pads of his thumbs. Takes Richie’s glasses and with the cloth of his shirt, cleans them off, places them carefully back onto Richie’s blotchy face, lets his fingers linger against Richie’s jaw for a second too long, and Richie wants to kiss him more than he thinks he has ever wanted to before; wants to tell Eddie that he loves him, that he’s beautiful, that he can’t remember a time he didn't love him or didn't think about him. 

Instead, he says nothing. 

And then, Eddie grabs his Walkman from the shelf, shuffles back on the blanket and lays back. Tugs on Richie’s sleeve to get him to follow. He does without a word. Lies back, lines his shoulder up against Eddie, healthy space between them, but they are still touching; can still feel one another. 

A headphone is offered to him and he takes it, eyes never leaving Eddie’s, whose own gaze is heavy enough to bury him into the Earth; Richie is sinking, he knows, without anything to pull himself back up, anything to cling to. Maybe he doesn’t need it. Maybe he wants to sink. Maybe he has already sunk. 

Eddie puts in a tape—Richie doesn’t have to look to know what it is. It picks up wherever he left off, and when the breezy opening to the song sounds, a crack of thunder quickly following, Richie holds his breath, body still, heart hammering against his chest hard enough to break right through his skin. 

As the melody continues, Richie fights hard to ignore the fire that spreads from his core and out to his limbs, dowsing him in flames. When he hears the first lyric, he blinks up at the ceiling for a moment or two, before he has to shut his eyes; pretends he isn't here with Eddie, but at home in his bed, alone. Anything to distract him from how close he is to Eddie, how close they’ve gotten since the song began, since they first laid down. And he’s glad, now, that the hammock is broken, out of commission, because he doesn’t know if he would be able to handle that kind of proximity right now, when he feels like this, so fucking lovesick and on fire and scared and—

—he stops thinking, sucks in a breath. Eddie scoots closer, until he decides where he is now is good enough, leans his temple against Richie’s arm; paralyzing him. His is fists clench at his sides. 

In the silence, over Robert Smith’s crooning voice—_the strangest twist upon your lips, but I don't see and I don't feel_—all Richie hears, now, is Connor’s voice; Henry’s cousin, the boy from the arcade. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend,” he spat, in front of Bowers and his friends, in front of the entire arcade, “you assholes didn’t tell me this town was full of a bunch of little fairies!” Richie’s heart crashing to the pit of his stomach, his stomach plummeting to the floor, freezing—he thought he was going to die. But Henry didn’t chase him out; didn’t follow him either. He had been grateful, even felt lucky, but he had only run into another evil, had fallen right into _It’s_ trap. 

Days later, Eddie had asked him what it was he was afraid of. And Richie didn’t dare tell them the truth, so he said the only thing that came into his mind—a rational, unassuming fear: “Clowns.” And it was a lie; such a big fucking nightmarish lie, but he didn’t even trust himself with his own secret; how was he to trust anyone else?

He thinks, now, that he can trust Eddie. He does trust Eddie. He knows he would understand; maybe he already did, because maybe he already knew. 

Richie loved him—was _in love_ with him—that was, and still is, no secret. At least, not to Richie, anyway. Which was why he did what he did; the knowing consumed him, filled him to the brim until he feared he would burst, and he supposes he did, the day he went to the Kissing Bridge and did his crime. At the time, he didn’t care. No one else had to know. No one else would know. How could they? All he had left were their initials; he wasn’t that dense. He knew if he made it more obvious he would get himself killed, or worse, he would put Eddie in danger. So he left it vague. He just didn’t think anyone would catch him in the act. 

Until someone did.

“Stop staring at me, creep.” Eddie grumbles, all of a sudden, bringing Richie back to present day, where he is laying beside Eddie and they are sharing each other’s space and listening to the lovelorn songs of The Cure, and Richie, though he hadn’t realized it until he got caught, is staring over at his best friend, thinking secret things that he wishes didn't have to be.

Stomach plummeting, Richie freezes. “M’not,” he lies after he thaws out, sounding dumb. He flexes his hands, pockets them. Doesn’t move his eyes from Eddie’s face.

Sighing, Eddie peeks one eye open. “Are too,” he argues, “you still are. Rude to stare, y’know,” he says, opening both eyes now as tilts his head up to meet Richie’s gaze, their faces a single breath apart.

Strands of hair fall into Eddie’s eyes with the motion, and the urge to brush them away is too strong, so as a precaution, Richie slides his hands under him. In case they get any ideas. 

Inside, his heart rattles against his ribcage, and he should look away, but he can’t. Mostly because he can’t bring himself to look away, his eyes are stuck in place, but also because he doesn’t really want to. Perhaps, if the others were there, he might have. But since it is just the two of them…

Something emboldens him, suddenly, and he slides a hand out from under him and places it in Eddie’s hair. The gesture makes Eddie go rigid, briefly, before he calms, leans into it. Richie doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, or where he’s going with this, and maybe he isn't doing anything or going anywhere at all, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling breathless, doesn’t stop his stomach from doing kick flips. Threading his fingers through the curls in Eddie’s hair, Richie stops, lets one wrap around his pointer finger. 

“Your hair is never short anymore,” he exhales in a whisper, words loaded with something he can’t place, doesn’t know if he should. 

A beat passes between them—a heartbeat—and the silence in the room is filled only by the song playing on Eddie’s Walkman, _remembering you fallen into my arms…crying for the death of your heart,_ until Eddie seems to find a response. 

“Like it better long,” he mumbles, staring at Richie’s wrist, not meeting his eyes anymore. 

A memory plays in the back of his mind, now, last summer—after everything, after _It_—of Richie doing this, same thing—_looks good on you,_ he’d said. And he’d meant it. He remembers how he felt when he had said it, too, how he still does…

“Me, too,” Richie agrees, and then he remembers himself, remembers Eddie, remembers them, and he retracts his hand. 

Eddie catches his wrist. “Rich,” he whispers, eyes flitting to Richie’s, then, and down to his mouth, “you’re okay, right?” 

Before he can stop himself, Richie lets his palm fall to Eddie’s face; brushes the pad of his thumb under his eye, rests it against his cheek. And thinks that if they were in a movie, this is where he would kiss him—

—but they aren’t in a movie. They’re here, in Derry. They’re Richie and Eddie and they aren’t actors, they’re best friends, real people. 

There is no script to direct them, feed them lines. All they have is their own thoughts and their own feelings and their own volition; but God, Richie would be lying if he said he didn't wish they weren’t real people. That he didn't wish they were in some cheesy fucking movie, just so he could have the happy ending he doesn’t think he’ll ever get—not in this life, anyway. 

He doesn’t kiss Eddie, but fuck, he wants to. More than he has ever wanted anything; he wants to.

Instead, he gives a slight nod, whispers back, “I’m okay,” and after one lingering moment, pulls his hand off Eddie’s face, and pretends he doesn’t see hurt pooling in Eddie’s eyes when he does.

**Author's Note:**

> why did i do that? i wish i knew...  
i won't lie and say i don't love this series. so if yall need me to mend something...i will.  
let me know ur thots and ur feelings in the comments!!!!! slap around that kudos button!!!!! ill be back soon!


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